


For Want Of A Nail

by THA_THUMPP



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alexandria Safe-Zone, Alpha Daryl, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Season/Series 04, Anal Sex, Assertive Rick, Awkward Sexual Situations, Basically, Bonding, Bottom Rick, Claiming, Fingerfucking, For The Masses, Grinding, Horniness, Human Eric, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, No Terminus, Omega Aaron, Omega Rick, POV Multiple, Porn, Protective Daryl, RickGrimes!Mpreg, Rickyl, Scenting, Shy Daryl, Sneaking Around, The Plot Thickens, Top Daryl, mpreg!Rick, with Semi-Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-03-07 11:42:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3172874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THA_THUMPP/pseuds/THA_THUMPP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody in the group looks up to Rick as an Alpha... Lord help him the day they find out he's actually an <em>Omega</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nature

**Author's Note:**

> 1/2 of us likes Alpha/Omega dynamics, the other 1/2 doesn't. But we humor each other. Hopefully we'll humor you as well.
> 
> Please Note: We're still working as fast and hard as possible to update our other mpreg!Rick story, [The Walking Miracle](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1418624/chapters/2980582). We just really wanted to write out and run with this idea instead of doing our homework. Ah, good ole procrastination at its finest...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick POV

For once in his life Rick feels helpless. He’d give anything not to, but it doesn’t seem like he has much of a choice. He can’t stop his hands from shaking no matter what he tries, holding them out in front of him, turning them over slowly. But not just them. He can’t stop his whole body from shaking, either. And the worst part is he knows why.

He _knows_ and he hates it.

He _hates_ how his chest’s rising like he’s fighting for air. How his legs are acting like they’re jelly. How his vision’s going hazy at the corners, and how his senses are heightened and making him aware of every scent drifting under the door and into the bathroom where he’s isolated himself. Better yet, how his gut’s twisting uncomfortably inside him like clove-hitches and how his thighs are starting to feel damp at the fork of his jeans.

Reason is, it means he’s excited. Rather, a part of him’s excited – _that_ part, the part he’s tried so hard to spurn for a good portion of the last few months, ever since miserably scraping the bottom of his pill bottle.

His suppressants.

Rick hasn’t been off his in years. He can’t remember the exact number, he lost count after twelve, after the world was signed to the dead and he woke up from a coma. The only thing he _can_ remember is how to read his body, which’s telling him that his heat’s just started and that the long-term effects of withholding his urges are gonna be no less than cruel.

Maybe even murderous.

A sudden surge of desire reinforces Rick’s beliefs, and he rolls his hands tightly into fists to keep them from hugging around his waist. He’s not in any pain right now, but his insides feel like they’re on the ride of their life, toning one minute then spinning outta control the next. It’s making him restless, not in a crazy sorta way just yet, but he knows to give it time.

How much, though, is up for debate.

During what Rick recalls of his last cycle, it was week. But when he considers how long he’s kept his true nature under lock and key he’s almost expecting the craze to hit earlier than that. Three days… _two_? Christ, he’s hoping it’s not two. His hands unfurl at the thought and his right moves to hover awkwardly over the joint of his hip, where it eventually gropes, as if to stunt any lower exploration…

Any _fondling_.

The idea of self-pleasure’s crossed Rick’s mind more than once, but he knows better than to tease himself. Touching would only strengthen the craving he has to be mated, to present himself to the first Alpha he bumps into in the hall. Michonne, Carol… _Daryl_? Another wave of pining has Rick’s stomach squeezing and immediately he hangs his head, feeling the skin around the nape of his neck tighten like a noose.

The others… they don’t know.

He hasn’t told them yet. He figures he _can’t_. Not when he’s so far into his own lie that he doesn’t know how they’ll take it, and definitely not when it can jeopardize his position as their leader. They just escaped the fall of the prison with their lives and found each other by chance on the roadside, the last thing they need right now is to find out that he isn’t what he lets on to be.

That he isn’t an _Alpha_.

Rick wishes he was, and not a day crawls by that he curses his biology for constantly pressuring him to be subservient when he’s never really seen his nature as something rare or to be sought after like a prize. Mentally, he’s always envisioned himself as someone more self-assured, which’s why he’s kept quiet, which’s _why_ he’s allowed the group to reach their own conclusions about him.

Being a natural leader helped, of course. But overthrowing Merle in Atlanta was how most of the conjecture started. Taking down Shane at the farm later was only a fringe benefit. Securing the prison was what really did the rest, and after that the shoe just fit. Rick _made_ it fit.

Dammit. If they saw him now, he’d be a sight.

Rick looks up, straight into the mirror and into his mean eyes. They stare back, glazed and almost challengingly, as if he’s trying to induce himself into believing that everything’s gonna be fine – _provoke_ himself – when his body’s telling him it isn’t.

But Rick’s not about to listen to reason, even if he knows it’s what he _should_ do.

Instead, he watches through his reflection as he strips himself of his jacket, going through the motions one arm at a time. He starts with his left shoulder, rolling it back and down, fighting the stiffness of another day’s end as he pulls the cloth over and from his skin. His right takes a bit more effort than that, but the minute it’s free he moans between his teeth at how everything suddenly feels two-times lighter.

Not drier, though.

Rick turns his jacket over in his hands once it’s completely off, thumbing the fur collar and dark fabric almost in fascination. It’s soaking wet, waterlogged with sweat – as is his once-white undershirt. With his arms rid of cover, he can see the long-formed streaks of perspiration more clearly, those darkening his pits, sopping the arc of his clavicle and outlining the curve of his chest bone.

It looks like he’s been sweating for a while, not just ten minutes, which shouldn’t be a surprise, considering his situation and how all his glands’re working overtime… But it is.

Rick _makes_ it a surprise when realizing how lucky he is to have bolted upstairs when he did.

In retrospect, it wasn’t the smartest idea to wait out dinner. He should’ve left the very minute he felt his stomach flip like it was gonna be sick and his leg adapt to a nervous jitter in place of his fingers against the table, the moment the room started to feel like a day in June instead of November and the food in his mouth started to taste like ash instead of cooking.

_Yeah_ , Rick thinks.

When looking back, he should’ve done a lot of things differently, some of which would’ve given him more time to think things through. _Thoroughly_. But truth was, if fate rewound he would’ve done it all the same. Not because of his pride but because they were celebrating… celebrating something worthwhile.

They’d found a place to call their _temporary_ home, a house, among a neighborhood of nine.

They came across it by pure chance when detouring off one of the main roads and frankly, it didn’t look all that promising at first glance, only like the world’s to-date definition of an address down the block.

Four walls and a roof.

No one expected more than that, accessibility was their new seal of approval and they took it as they saw it. It wasn’t until Carl tripped over a coiled hose on the front lawn and pulled the tubing clean from the side of the house, releasing a torrent of water and spraying anybody within ten feet, that changed their minds.

Running water meant working pipelines and working pipelines meant plumbing, heating and sanitation. They couldn’t have asked for more.

Rick knows that, just like he _knows_ he should be smiling dizzily like everybody downstairs. But he can’t bring his lips to cooperate or shake the feeling that he’s already surrounded by a cage with invisible bars. Obviously though, that’s the heat in him talking, his paranoia and reaction to sussing that he’s walking a sharp line, that he’s the only one of his kind smack-dab in a house jam-packed of Alphas and Betas.

Potential partners.

The reminder has Rick’s features softening into an expression he’d normally consider defeat and he stares at his reflection dolefully, scrutinizing every bit of how there’s a lot more gray in his beard and long, curling hair than last week and how his light brows push up and ripple his forehead with a series of profound grooves. He’s not even sure if he can afford to make such a face without either breaking down or going mad, but without much effort it stays anyways.

More so, after he hears a knock outside the bathroom door and a graveled voice he’s come to love.

_“Yo, Rick. Ya fall in or somethin’?”_


	2. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick POV

_Oh, Christ. Daryl._

Irrefutable instinct has Rick opening his mouth to respond, only to find that he can’t form his words right. His tongue’s too sluggish to even try and his mind’s too blank to even think.

In all his days role-playing, he’s never imagined himself being in this situation, being trapped between a rock and a hard place. _Never_. Life either got in the way or he talked the possibility down, talked it down because he had to and now he _has_ to.

Rick snaps his mouth shut at the thought of being discreet, all the while turning his head towards the only thing keeping Daryl out – an _Alpha_ out. He doesn’t know how his ears missed the footsteps on the stairs or how his nose hasn’t caught the scent until just now, but a certain fear has him not caring.

Because this’s _exactly_ what he was afraid of… ‘specially when noticing the door’s not even locked.

_“Rick?”_

There’s another knock, a little louder than before, and Rick’s blood almost stops pumping through his veins when he hears Daryl shift beyond the framework. Behavior like that means the man’s getting impatient, that he’s getting ready to give in to volatile tendencies, and it doesn’t take long for Rick to envision what happens next. He’s learned his fair share from past experiences that Daryl’s quick to temper, and for that reason alone Rick drops his eyes to the doorknob.

Dead bolting it now’s a thought. But with Daryl so close there’s no doubt that the man’d hear it click. Probably ask _what gives_ in the process, too.

After all, it’s not like they haven’t walked in on each other before. When they still had the prison, there were plenty of times they showered together and saw one another in next to nothing. _Plenty_ of times. Except that was when Rick was still on his suppressants, making it easier for him to blend in and keep face. Better still, keep the majority of his salacious nature closely controlled.

Rick’s fingers twitch within the textile of his jacket. Right now his pockets feel the emptiest they’ve ever been, even those in his jeans. Not in mourn of his exhausted resources or for scold of not trying harder to get a refill, but because he figures that with the way he is now – leaking like a sieve – he’s easy pickings and open to the elements.

The smells.

With Daryl now outside the door, there’re a whole waft of delicious scents slipping into the bathroom and burning Rick’s nose. In essence, the Alpha pheromones are the most prominent, and he’s nearly on the verge of losing himself in them before realizing that this can go both ways. Only, he knows Daryl can’t smell his hormones just yet. He has his dirt and walker-gutted clothes to thank for that, his trade secret.

In reality though, Rick also knows it’s merely a matter of time before even that’s trounced, and for fear of having his stink permeate even more he reels his head around the room in a search.

Whether he wants Daryl to or not, the man’s coming in and he needs to be ready. He needs something to cover up his trail, to mask it, and in the heat of the moment Rick’s senses tell him that steam seems like the most reliable means. Not only can it form fast but it’s probably the only option he has, and without thinking twice Rick quickly throws himself over the side of the tub.

In a wide lean, his jacket still in-hand, he spins the handle on – to the right and farthest it’ll go – before pulling the diverter up, hearing the pipes roar within the walls and the faucet choke loudly. The sound has Rick jerking back and holding his breath in anticipation, up until he hears a harsh spit and the showerhead starts gushing buckets. But that doesn’t mean he’s far enough outta the woods to let himself relax, not when he doesn’t know if this’ll even work.

“Come on…” Rick exhales through a whisper, throwing a sparing glance over his shoulder every few seconds. “ _Come on_.”

Nerves have him rapping a thumb mindlessly against his thigh and anxiously racking up the seconds. He rounds about two minutes total before seeing the results he wants, how the bathroom’s pleasantly filled with a warm mist, condensation on the mirror, and what smells like nothing but the expansive force of an odorless vapor – all of which just in time, too.

Without the notion of a third knock, Rick senses the doorknob twist behind him and turns to see Daryl letting himself in. As collectively as he can, Rick takes a step in place and pulls at the shower curtain, furthering the steam before holding his jacket up to his chest as he would a towel if someone were to barge in on him naked, _exposed_ … and in a primal way, Daryl kinda has.

Only, the man doesn’t know that.

“Daryl?” Rick tries to sound surprised.

“Ya didn’t answer so…” Daryl gracelessly thumbs at the door, letting his excuse trail into silence.

“Didn’t hear you over the water.” Rick lies through his teeth, eyes flicking a little too far right than intended as he feels his stomach squirm with months of desires, almost making it difficult to breathe. But timely enough, his voice still has that trained inflexibility. “Need somethang?”

“Missed ya after dinner.” Daryl ruffles his right shoulder in a casual half-shrug as he saunters further in, letting the door close behind him. “Thought I’d come up n’ check on ya.” He pauses for a minute to look around the bathroom, taking in the sticky heat before focusing back on Rick. More specifically, the gleaming skin around his neck and the sweat marks on his shirt. “Ya al’right?”

Rick narrows his stare slightly, heartbeat playing ping-pong in his chest at the ambiguity of the question. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks carefully, also firmly.

“Hrrn.” Daryl shrugs again, this time fully, as if that’s the end of that conversation, but as Rick continues to watch him intently, Daryl starts gumming his bottom lip in between glances. “Ya look… I dunno.” He waves a hand by his side, like he’s trying to find a word that isn’t too outta place. “Rough.” He finally decides to say, then waits a beat. “Ya ain’t sick, are ya?”

“What?” Rick asks dumfoundedly, feeling deaf against his racing pulse and the running shower. Even Daryl looks affected by the noise of the water, which probably isn’t a good thing…

“I mean Glenn’s still got that sickness or whatever.” Daryl takes another step closer as if he can’t hear himself think, too remiss to notice Rick tensing at his presence. “Whatever’s left anyways…”

“No.” Rick shakes his head with a strained smile, inwardly screaming to _play it cool_. “No, I’m not sick.” He wishes it was that simple, though.

“Ya sure?” Daryl skeptically reaches out after what must be a third step, stretching the back of his hand towards Rick’s forehead like he’s ready to test for a fever. “‘Cause, you’re a bit red—”

“Daryl, don’t…” Rick growls thoughtlessly as he rolls his neck back in a retreat, forgetting that he’s supposed to be competing over the gushing water, water that’s beginning to sound like thunder over a weir in his ears.

In both their ears.

One of Daryl’s eyes thins smaller than the other behind his hair as he squints, dropping his hand. His face is starting to subconsciously bud with unease, unease at _Rick’s_ _unease_ , which Daryl takes as territorial. “Come on, man.” He grumbles. “Ya ain’t the only bitch in heat.”

There’s some smite to Daryl’s joke – if it can be considered that – but Rick’s not about to discriminate. All he’s _really_ heard is his undoing, because if Daryl’s in the first stages of his cycle too, thinking they can both fool around as dominant males for the sake of a good rut like in the past, then…

“No.” Rick quickly blurts in memory, motioning at the door with the grimmest tone his can muster. “I need you to leave.”

“What? What’d I say?” Daryl shifts awkwardly where he’s at. He looks blown, like he can’t reason the hostility coming his way, like his instincts are now telling him something’s not right here, his _Alpha instincts_ , and that’s a bad mix if Rick knows one.

Because the longer he stays around Daryl – the temptation standing inches in front of him with those irresistible, doey-eyes – the harder it’s gonna be for him to pit the moral fiber untaught to his bones… which’s something Rick doesn’t want. Period.

“Get out…”

“Rick, I didn’t mean—”

“I said, _get out_!”

Blind anger has Rick grabbing Daryl by the bend of his arm, his left to Daryl’s left in a pull. He doesn’t care if the hold’s unconventional or that he should be keeping their contact minimal, the only thought circling his head is that they can’t be in the same space together. Not like _this_. He needs the man gone, his need for continual secrecy needs the man gone, and in an attempt to run Daryl from the room Rick pulls him again, as hard as he can towards the door—

missing the bit where Daryl’s body follows in a mean slant, the bit where the man’s nose sharply sweeps the most sensitive part of his neck, the side of his neck…

His goddamn _scent glands_.

Rick feels a sickening tremor of heat shoot down his spine, _sees_ the very same shoot down Daryl’s, and in that instant they both snap back like they were just stung by the same bee. Daryl’s closer to the door than he’s ever been, and Rick’s right up against the sink with one hand out like he’s readying himself to talk the man down, because when their gazes meet the realization’s there.

Daryl knows.

Dammit, Rick _knows_ he knows, and the next three words he hears only proves it.

“You’re an _Omega_?!”


	3. Daze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick POV

Eight-feet by five-feet. That’s all the space there is in the bathroom. Eight-feet for words and five-feet for movement. Daryl does all he can to put every inch to use when he starts pacing, but whenever he nears Rick he stops short and starts again, ultimately giving himself half that to work with by the time he finally stills and squints through his shabby hair as he would a judas.

“All this time…” Daryl’s face goes almost beet red on the spot, voice terribly grilled and eyes brimming with so much prejudgment that Rick can literally see the red flag waving in his face. “Were you ever gonna tell me!”

“No.” Rick answers too quickly for careful thought, none too surprised that it’s the first question the man goes for. “I… I—” He licks his lips on a pause, a break in his intonation that has Daryl shifting his feet where he stands.

“What the hell, man!” Daryl snarls, nostrils flaring like he’s gearing up to be physical. He looks like he wants to start moving again, this time all the way, to stomp ahead and trace the lined grout in the floor right up to the tips of Rick’s boots and hiss in his face.

That’d be the boldest thing he’s done in a while, but they both know he’s not going to.

Right now distance is everything. The shared pull they experienced during that one touch earlier was enough of an eye-opener as any. Their primitive nature’s already aware of the deception at play and there’s nowhere left to go but forward, to find some way to _make_ this work. Rick’s at wit’s end with trying.

“I swear to you, you… you weren’t supposed to find out this way.” Rick doesn’t blink as he fumbles over the only excuse that comes to mind, unintentionally talking louder over the pattering of the shower. He knows whatever explanation he uses is far from his saving grace, but with everything escalating outta control it’s all he has left. Regrets.

Regrets that just keep adding up.

“When, then?” Daryl demands.

Rick opens his mouth, but he can’t bring himself to say _never_ , even after priming his jaw twice. “Look, I’m…” His eyes fall to the floor as he talks, like he’s trying to understate himself in the only way he knows surrender, a dependency he’s adopted during his time-off at the prison. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Daryl repeats as he takes one, big step forward, his right hand visibly cutting through the steam in the air as he settles into another idling stance, a closer stance, pushing their boundaries. “A _sorry_ ain’t good enough, Rick!” He yells.

“Hey!” Rick’s eyes leap back up as he lowers his head, protecting his neck as if perceiving a threat. His other hand’s outstretched by now, the one still knuckle-deep within his own jacket to show he’s a little more serious than before. “Keep your damn voice down.”

Daryl’s nose immediately curls up in defiance, pulling his upper lip alongside with it, enough to reveal the beautiful whites of his teeth. “Why?” His tone’s the same boisterous, loud shrill as he sweeps his whole arm back towards the door without so much as a glance. “So the others don’t find out yer dirty little secret? I say let ‘em!” He threatens before motioning to show himself out.

“Daryl, don’t. Just… Just hear me out. Hey. I need you to just— _Daryl_.”

Rick doesn’t wait for Daryl to fully turn to leave. Instead, he chucks his jacket at the man’s face. Being last minute and impulsive it works as a diversion, and while Daryl struggles to slap it off his head Rick shirks his way to the door. He slams his back against it by the time Daryl finally unhoods himself and tries reaching for the handle, which is now shadowed by his body.

“ _Move_.” Daryl grounds out in a tone as frosted as the color of his eyes, fingers curling into empty fists by his sides.

“ _No_.” Rick growls back just as cold, standing as firm as he can against an Alpha. Though not a _true_ Alpha.

Like Carol and Michonne, Daryl was first a Beta. He only became an Alpha after killing family. Their hierarchy was lenient in that sense, but not for an Omega. There were no second chances there. Rick was doomed to be like this for the rest of his life.

“I ain’t gonna tell ya again.” Daryl says, too quick to be a word of caution, as he impetuously resorts to pulling Rick forward by the bones of his hips in a sorta manhandle, showing he’s not afraid to use force or remove him physically if he has to.

Except, even with the intent there, Daryl miscalculates the basic constitution of raw influence.

No later than his fingertips dig through Rick’s filthy shirt and into the soft tissue of his waist, there’s that stomach-turning tremor of uncondensed hunger again. Like before they both sense it, they both _shudder_ at it. Only, this time it’s ten-fold, deep-seated, and so rapturous it feels like the unadulterated hand of euphoria – even against the persistent heat of the shower.

Rick tenses at the knee-buckling sensation, feeling his stomach squeeze with temptation. He gives Daryl a very slovenly stare as it settles, lips parted in an unconscious look of flirtation. He has no control over the expression, it just happens in a way that feels like self-possession, a face he’d typically make if having his curiosity roused or caught in a daze.

In this case, _daze_.

Rick can’t focus on anything past his nose. Each inhalation he takes has him losing the clarity in certain areas of his brain, replacing it with this foreshortened sagacity of right and wrong. It’s a state of mind that has him breathing through his mouth shortly after, inadvertently picking up on the more latent levels of their attraction.

With the established intimacy of their bodies and the mingling of their pheromones, Rick can practically taste Daryl on his tongue, well aware he shouldn’t relish the flavor anymore than he already has but incapable of steering himself away from it even then. The same means apply to Daryl, who looks like he’s undergoing a comparable response with the way his lips are pulled inward, into a thin line, like he doesn’t know if he should say anything or not.

In its entirety, Rick knows the feeling. Because really, what else _is_ there to say?

_I didn’t mean to hurt you. Will you forgive me? Can I trust you? Is there any way we can keep this between us? Give me a chance. We can make this work. Daryl, please… don’t make me beg._

Rick tilts his head like he can already hear the hypocrisy of his lines aloud, the pretense. All things considered, pleading’s never really been a part of his character, compromising by discussion has. But if he has to supplicate some kind of agreement – if that’s the only way Daryl’ll listen – Rick’s not about to put it past his morale. He’ll use it like his life depends on it, however he has to.

Within reason, that is.

After all, they can’t be unreasonable about this. Right now the benefits of their friendship are hanging in the balance of deprived decisions and compulsory measures, and Rick doesn’t wanna lose any sense of the connection they already have to visceral passion, to a reality neither of them can control. These mixed emotions between them, this lovesick disobedience and notion of betrayal, they’ll pass. In a week’s time, but in time nonetheless. It’s all just a matter of making it until then, beyond the _now_.

And Daryl’s kiss isn’t helping.

Rick doesn’t remember how their lips met or even who motioned first, but for a split second there’s a piece of him that doesn’t care, a piece of him that wants this, that wants him to take it further as they grunt and pant into each other’s mouths like a mating call.

Only, like most addictions, a split second’s all it takes, and the next time Rick blinks he’s being hoisted atop the bathroom counter.

Daryl has him by the curve of his ass, controlling both their movements in a sightless and unconscious demonstration of dominance. In favor of the height, he breathes heavily under Rick’s chin, taking in the cutting-edge and fixated scent of sex as his fingers start to dance over the buckle of Rick’s belt.

Rick’s breath quickens as he feels Daryl’s hips stir against him, as the man’s hands try to grope their way into the front of his jeans, as every ounce of weight that’s not his goads him deeper into the fixture. As the congenital instinct he’s oppressed for countless years begins to consume him, Rick leans back slightly and pushes his pelvis out in consideration of driving his wet groin over Daryl’s clothed cock, encouraging the man to tussle him harder, to lift a knee between his legs and shave off some of the ache.

The scrape of Daryl’s teeth against his neckline swiftly erases the idea, though.

“Daryl.” Rick squirms in alignment with the moist countertop, jutting Daryl’s forehead with more beard than chin in a subtle warning. The last thing he wants is to be _claimed_ , never mind by accident. “Stop… Get a hold’a yourself.”

“Nghn.” Daryl rumbles weakly in disagreement, words lost like he’s just woken after a night of excessive drinking, unaware that he’s a mean drunk. “Ya taste so good.”

There’s room for a laugh at that reply, but Rick doesn’t risk it. “No, we can’t do this.” He slides forward, down on to his feet, and places both his hands on either side of Daryl’s head, losing all nine of his fingers within the man’s wild, dark, greasy hair when there’s another motion for a kiss. This one committed to memory.

“Pfft.” Daryl slurs against what he can of Rick’s mouth despite being held at bay, _teased_ at bay. “You’re crazy.”

“No. I’m _serious_.” Rick closes his eyes as he slowly rims Daryl’s lips with his own in short movements, like not looking and just savoring the air between them is enough to sate any more urges. “This isn’t us, Daryl. This isn’t _me_. This isn’t… It’s not…” Rick struggles through his next exhale, like he’s still mired in a wish – a wish of wanting to give in but knowing he can’t. That he _can’t_.

Not if it means losing who he is.

“It’s not me, Daryl… _Not me_.”


	4. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl POV

Daryl Dixon doesn’t have selective hearing. He reaps every word that Rick manages to make with his mouth. He even autistically spells them out in his head like he would his own name if somebody were to ask him to write it. But no matter the process of repetition he still can’t get past how the last two words sound, how he can easily add a silent K in front of the N O T, how his brain automatically says _an invitation_ and his ears say _like sex_.

Fuck. Daryl wants sex. His body wants sex, his Alpha very-much wants everything to do with sex.

With the shock of the discovery and the anger of being lied to now leagues behind him, all Daryl’s really feeling is instinct clawing away at his insides, a desire begging him to take Rick like an animal, to lose himself further to the clusters of messages flitting into his mind, those telling him to give in to this unforeseen experience and reciprocate what he can.

Daryl’s never been around an Omega before in his life. He’s heard stories about them from Merle, sure. Been told by his brother how _there ain’t nothin’ to ‘em but a good time_ and some other gluttonous shit about how they _smell sweeter than cream_. But on no account has he actually met one, stood face-to-face with one, or held one in his arms – let alone one who thinks himself as an Alpha.

Shit, Daryl curses inwardly. He sure as hell ain’t prepared for this.

Control’s his shortfall. It’s always been throughout his years on earth and he knows it has. Knowing he can’t help it either is even worse and there’s no ignoring how he’s feeling protective right now. Possessive and downright horny. But as Rick continues to talk to him softly and breathe through empty moans, Daryl slowly finds his inadequacy to cope strengthening.

Rick does most of the wordy business. He asks him to _break even with him_ , _level with him_ , put himself in _his_ shoes and do something for a friend. Being overly-involved already and more of a friend than Rick knows, Daryl agrees. He fucking _agrees_ without hearing the rest of the stupid request. All it takes is a sodden look from the man, a few more glances at those red lips, and then bam – he’s hooked, reeled, and gutted.

Imagine his surprise when Rick sounds like a walking contradiction.

_“Daryl, I need you to sleep with me… Wait, no. No, not that way. You have to understand, I can’t stay like this on my own. Your scent, it’s stronger than mine. Huskier. I figure if you’re next to me no one else can question that… Daryl?”_

Damn Grimes. Asking this of him like some bumbling fool.

Daryl feels his palms sweat and his inner Alpha whine in his throat. The request’s process-worthy, but any thoughts about how lucky he is to have found Rick first quickly flees. Earlier it was distance, now it’s contact? Shit. The situation sucks. Big time. Having them both being on their cycles is like a god-send and a death-wish in chorus. It couldn’t damn near suck any more than it does, or be any less than what Daryl expects.

Awkward, which it is.

As Rick starts to undress in front of him, drawing his sopping shirt over his head while suggesting _he do the same_ so they can rinse away some of their scent – _his_ scent on _him_ – before the shower runs any colder, Daryl can’t bring himself to stare too long. It even takes him a beat to eventually get past the paranoia in Rick’s voice and give in, to get his boots off and his multiple layers of clothes, but once he does he follows Rick under the water, despising every minute of it.

Ten, to be exact.

For _ten minutes_ Daryl stands behind Rick, feeling his cock throb between his legs with excitement and rush with so much blood his head feels as light as a balloon. It’s bad enough that he has to listen to Rick moan under the spray of the shower and share such a close space with temptation, but every time he turns towards the showerhead to rinse himself of soap Rick accidentally bumps his elbow, sometimes his shoulder or his hip.

Daryl does a lot more apologizing than he’s ever considered in a hundred years, well-aware it ain’t his fault, but unable to change his ways. Rick long-sufferingly tells him in whispers that _it’s a’lright_ as much as he can, until it’s wordlessly understood with a hum or two, and surprisingly Daryl finds it much easier to listen to him. ‘Specially with how the stale shampoo’s masking most of Rick’s thought-provoking pheromones.

But what’s known is known and also hard to forget.

Despite being washed clean, Rick still smells like a brothel to Daryl after they dry off and slip back into their dirty clothes, or at least the idea of one, but he tries to overlook that as Rick drags him downstairs by the arm to rejoin the others in the kitchen, who’ve probably spent the better of their time cracking jokes about where they’ve been and what they’ve been doing, given that their fun in the past is no secret.

Unlike this… Rick being an _Omega_.

An unexpected wave of jealously shoots through Daryl’s body. His heartbeat picks up, pounding uneasily and fretfully in his chest _for_ Rick as he obediently stays by the man’s side, listening to how Rick explains – quite convincingly – that since the house is small they’re gonna have to sleep in pairs of two tonight, until they can figure something else out. How long that’ll take is anyone’s guess, but since they’re all close enough to be considered an extended family it shouldn’t be a problem.

Michonne proves the thought right. She volunteers right off the bat that she’ll watch over Carl and Judith for the night, seeing as Rick looks like he can use a good rest. Daryl doesn’t miss how Rick tenses at her observation or how his face wants it to stay as just that – taken as a look of sleep-deprivation, not what it really is. The stress of an unwanted heat. She’s thanked regardless, and then everybody races away to claim a room and shower themselves.

Daryl hangs back as Rick coddles Judith with a kiss before passing her to Carl, who he then pulls in for a goodnight kiss as well. Daryl snorts silently at how Carl shivers visibly at the touch, probably thinking it’s his ol’ man’s aura of protection making him do so. But Daryl knows differently and swiftly tries to shove the image of Carl, as a Beta, mounting his dad to the hind of his mind before Rick returns to him by the door, then walks out into the hall.

Daryl follows without being told, unsurprised when Rick picks one of the bedrooms on the bottom floor of the house. It’s at the back, secluded, and perfect for what they need – rather, what _Rick_ needs. He’s the one ticking like a time-bomb.

“How’ya wanna do this?” Daryl limps a wrist at the bed when noticing it ain’t a king but a queen, meaning less room. Great.

Rick hums in contemplation as he walks over to the farthest wall, sliding open one of the two windows for ventilation before propping a wooden chair under it as a sorta noise-marker or trap, just in case something tries to squeeze its way in. Whether it be a critter or a walker, it’ll do. They’re both light sleepers, anyways.

“I figure you take that side and I’ll take this one.” Rick points at the left side of the bed for himself before he brushes his hands on the tops of his thighs like they’re dusty. He moves them to the front of his jacket after that, folding it tighter across his chest. Almost self-protectively.

“Suit yerself.” Daryl makes a noise through his mouth, something like amusement at how they won’t be cuddling, as he lies down and kicks up his feet. The mattress squeaks suggestively beneath him as he sinks into it with a couple bounces, but he pretends to not hear it with a loud sigh, closing his eyes.

_“Daryl…”_

“Hrn?” Daryl grunts, feeling the bed dip in beside him and the covers being upset but not unturned.

_“Thank you.”_

“Don’ thank me yet.” Daryl mumbles as he rolls his back to Rick, pulling a pillow over his head like he’s done listening for tonight. “Ya just better hope this works.”


	5. Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl POV

When the next day comes rolling in with its winter morning light Daryl wants nothing more than to think that the plan’s worked. He remembers what he said last night, how skeptical he sounded, but for the sake of his endurance, the growing wears and tears of lust, and simply because Rick said so, he has to believe in something or else he’s gonna lose it. But as cruel fate has it, it wants him lost because even after he wakes in firm trust there’s no way for him to really relish in such confidence.

In spite of being ten minutes into consciousness and looking intently at the ceiling with one arm placed beneath his head as a pillow, the real one on the floor, Daryl’s optimism isn’t anywhere close to being reassured. Nor is his mind. It’s stuck, stalled like an engine and caught in a predicament of being undecided whether to classify his suffering as _in vain_ or _pending_.

Mostly because Rick isn’t there to clarify if it is or it ain’t.

He’s gone, the bed empty. The only company Daryl’s been left with is the stiffest block of wood between his legs, the male body’s routine performance but also the indisputable evidence of his dormant hardship, because even with Rick absent from the room the message is still pretty clear.

 _You his frilly beard now?_ is how Merle teases the saying in Daryl’s head, and Daryl counters his brother’s voice with a soft snort. It’s not like Rick doesn’t have enough of one already, he thinks cheekily and to himself. Only, when’s enough _really_ enough?

In their world, facial hair’s beginning to read like the new war paint, signifying longevity and personality no matter the look or length, trimmed or unkempt. Daryl rubs his chin against the underbelly of his arm as a running example, grazing his skin with his scruff at the thought of how maybe he can let that comparison slide before being reminded of Rick’s very marked and rooted presence, a charisma he can feel on all sides of him, pulling him over and under like a silent and internal storm.

Daryl looks over at the other side of the bed as he brings the fingers of his free hand to play across the fronts of his lips in slow strums, breaths as bored as they can be and mouth drawn long in a deliberate frown. Aside from the incredibly distinct, feathered spoors of hens in the room, he can still smell Rick on the sheets. He has to strain, of course, but having lain beside him for what seems like five or six hours, the scent’s identifiable nonetheless.

What isn’t definite is when Rick left… or the meaning as to _why_.

Imagining Rick chickening out is the first idea that makes itself at home in Daryl’s mind, but as he thinks harder and recreates Rick’s image in whatever pockmarks are still lingering in the mattress in pings the vivid and guilt-stricken images of them making love, sweet love. Only, _make-believe_ would be more like it and Daryl tries to stop any and all thoughts struggling with the matter right there.

Because it didn’t happen.

He knows it didn’t in awe of the fact that he consciously remembers snapping himself awake at every condemning and sex-driven thought to make sure he wasn’t gonna do something he’d regret. And a simple twitch of one toe didn’t cut it, either. There were a couple times when he violently had to toss and turn like he was in chronic pain just to distract himself from the pleads and whispers of his inner Alpha, not to mention Rick’s Omega.

Daryl sighs in memory and slides his arm from behind his head. He shifts slightly on the bed for momentum before crutching up high enough to grope a feel at his erection. A familiar yet inexperienced hardness meets the calluses of his fingers through the coarse fabric of his jeans, and after a bushed groan he flops back onto the moth-eaten mattress they called a solution last night.

The flat plane of the covers wrinkles and stretches further than before as he lands, rushing layers of dust from beneath him and sending it all dazzling into the light at different angles. Depending on preference it could look like a homey but cheap simulation of speckled snow or glittering stars, but Daryl’s not all that concerned about which he considers himself more prone to as he expels enough air from his lungs to disturb the residue and particles further in a swirling dance.

Personally, he’s fixated on something much more meaningful.

Daryl splays his fingers in front of his face and inspects the backs of his nails in a wonted glance. In any other situation they’d do in fulfilling his craving of wanting to gnaw, but since they’re already raw and cuticle-short he figures he could do with something else to grind between his teeth, something pain-free but equally satisfying. Lowering his hands, they home in on his chest as if they know just the thing.

A cigarette. Fuck yeah, he could do with one of those.

Daryl sits up and throws his feet over the side of the bed in the middle of his search, keeping his hands rummaging through the pockets of his jacket the whole time. It takes a little more hunting than what he’s used to with how misshapen his clothes are, but nevertheless he finds the pack and shuffles a stick up, all the while trying to look past the reality that smoking is a slow burn to his health on the pretense that it’s always been a sufficient source of comfort for whatever bad habits he’s picked up during the prison.

If only he could get away with labeling Rick as one of those habits, then it’d be a resolution in itself and he could be done with this iniquitous trial.

Mindful that it ain’t that simple though, Daryl hunts his pockets again for his lighter. He finds it with a little more ease than his former search and proceeds to station the filter of his cigarette between his lips as he lights the tobacco rod, cupping his hands around the low glow of the tip long enough for it to take to the flame with a sharper color. Breathing in, he flicks the base lid of his lighter closed in one, working motion before relaxing. His inhale is ongoing as he leans forward and rests one elbow on his knee, cheeks dimpling as he reaches his limit of intake before normalizing as he looks out the window and exhales thoughtfully in a tuft.

The smoke hazes the air like a bout of morning mist before it dissipates into the lonely space of the bedroom. Daryl watches it leave from start to finish before dropping his eyes to the sill in an expressionless study of the chair. It seems the damn thing stayed true to its role the whole night, given that it’s still there propped and standing strong against the ledge.

What isn’t strong is the rendering of the figures he can see moving outside beyond the glass.

Daryl squints through his hair and past his faint reflection in the window’s pane. His first thought is that he’s looking at an approaching group of walkers, but that’s before voices begin fading into audibility – articulate and distinguishable voices. Household voices. It sounds like a quarter of his family’s out on the front lawn in ready of a quarrel, no tone too pleased, and Daryl quickly snuffs his newborn-cigarette out on the sole of his boot before jumping up from the bed, snatching his crossbow from behind the bedroom door, and running outside to see what’s going on.

Never mind that he still has a stubborn hard-on.

It’s only as he leaves the safety of the front door that he remembers this, improvising by telling himself that he’ll deal with it as he goes. More so, that’s what his iconic weapon’s for. Cover, an apparatus of bulk that always looks so natural on him no one can ever question how or where he holds it.

In this situation, square in front of him and at the same height of his waist.

“What happened!” Daryl calls out to the first person he sees as he nears the end of his jog, ignoring how his jeans are inches from sagging over his boxers and dropping off his hips.

With how preoccupied he is about keeping his crossbow firmly in place, he’s gotta disregard something and society’s code of conduct happens to be what he thinks he can overlook. Rick, who he can now see bringing up the rear of what he takes as a hypothetical supply run return, doesn’t get that same neglect. Daryl’s eyes are pointed and on him the very minute he realizes he can’t smell anything – no neurotic hormones, no sweet nothing, nada – which has him seconds away from feeling accomplished.

But that’s before he notices how Rick’s clothes are covered in walker blood and guts, and his mind races as fast as his disappointed pulse.

Shit. Is that why Rick looks like he’s come away from death by the skin of his teeth? Because he’s still worried about trying to cover up his scent? Why the hell didn’t he wait for him earlier? Is it because the plan didn’t work? Or is this Rick’s failsafe? Fucking plan B and a screw-you to A?

Daryl growls darkly and protectively behind his thin-straight lips, wanting to chew Rick out on the spot for recklessness and whatever else he can think of, maybe even box his ears like a scolding parent or jealous sweetheart. But as it would seem, judging by Glenn’s disenchanted expression and Michonne’s haggard features, Rick looks like he’s already received a _good licking_ from them about, what they probably saw as, his negligence. Figuratively speaking, but damn. If he keeps this up, a literal spanking might be the only way to knock some sense into him.

By all means, Daryl’s excited to try… but maybe later.

“What happened?” Glenn breaks away from the group first, repeating Daryl’s initial question past its best as he waves a whole arm back towards Rick like a talebearer. “Rick went all kamikaze on a walker, that’s _what happened_.”

“It was in the way, _my_ way.” Rick counters strongly, like what he’s saying should be taken as perfect justification, forbid an excuse. “I was only—”

Glenn stops several feet past Daryl and spins around like he’s just been called a liar, face slightly drained in his recovery. From sickness and in health. “Yeah, but you didn’t have to grapple it!” His whole arm sweeps out towards Michonne next, who’s not too far behind him. “If she didn’t jump in with her sword when she did you could’ve been _bit_!”

The air falls deadly still between the four of them at the word, as if to emphasize how three small letters can encompass the weight of life. With everything they’ve come to know on earth it’s not too chestnut to imply that it can, and Daryl looks at Rick like he’s supposed to say something, perhaps even reinforce that idea with an apology or do whatever. But surprisingly, there’s no recognition between them. In fact, Daryl suddenly notices that for some reason Rick can’t even look at him. He can’t _look_ at him.

Fuck, and here he thought he was being awkward by just standing around.

“Guys…” Daryl puts on his inmost grumble as he undertakes the task of mediator, talking specifically to Glenn and Michonne. “I got this.”

Aware of the favoritism, the Beta in Glenn complains at a level that should be weak to hear, but expressive or not it’s obvious that he’s dissatisfied with how Daryl automatically takes Rick’s side by the way he immediately holds his hands up as if to acknowledge that he’s outnumbered three-Alphas-to-one. _I get it, not my place. Whatever man, he’s your problem_ , is the lasting impression he leaves them with before stomping away, finally moving off the front lawn and disappearing into the house.

Michonne has a softer but more unreadable look about her as she also complies and leaves, but it’s Daryl’s guess as to what she’s really submitting to. For the most part, she doesn’t even look all that pissed at Rick in the first place, leaving Daryl to take her flight as an understanding one. _He had one of his episodes, I had to help. Keep an eye on him for me_ , is what he imagines she’d say if she did speak her mind.

But honestly? She doesn’t even need to ask that.

Because Daryl knows what he has to do on a level Michonne isn’t even aware of. It’s just a matter of doing it _safely_ and _secretly_ , and he keeps his eyes off of Rick until it’s just the two of them standing outside. Only, even after he turns to meet Rick he wishes he hadn’t because then he wouldn’t have seen the expression of abandonment on the man’s face, the misery and the loss. Rick looks like he took a front-end dive into a pool and drowned in it. His Omega’s surfacing, ruining his pillars of strength and clouding his ruling, and don’t Rick know it, which’s why Daryl figures he’s turning to walk in the other direction.

So he can keep his distance.

Daryl understands why it’s important to give him some space, but even so he doesn’t let Rick get too far ahead before he starts following like it’s an obligation of his, steps light. He pores over how Rick’s shoulders drop from their wound-up state and into a real deep slump of defeat, like he’s expecting to be pestered some more, by somebody who knows the whole story this time. Daryl’s tempted, but the tired slant of Rick’s body tells him that the man probably only got as much sleep as he did, which has him reconsidering the length of his wrath.

“Six more days’a this, huh?”

Rick sighs at the reminder. “Somethang tells me you won’t mind it.” He throws his head back in a brief but direct nod, towards and below Daryl’s waist. “You gonna take care of that before lunch?”

Daryl blanks at whatever he glimpses of Rick’s eyes, as drained and smug as they are, before he tracks the gesture. His face warms with embarrassment as he looks down and discovers that his crossbow’s hanging free by his side instead of covering his still-strong erection. Muttering an assortment of unheard curses, he sheepishly pretends to tuck his shirt into the front and back of his jeans before anybody else notices.

“Ya know ya moan in yer sleep?” Daryl hisses like it should be considered a form of criticism.

“And you grind your teeth.” Rick says as Daryl falls behind, leaving him to carry on his own. “But do you see me complainin’?”

No. Daryl answers inwardly. No, he fucking doesn’t.


	6. Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick POV

By the fourth day of his heat, Rick’s ready to take back everything he’s said in chastisement and start complaining. He knows that nothing good’ll come from being rebarbative and that once he opens his mouth he’ll be wishing to snatch back every word he utters and swallow them whole, but for the life of him he honestly can’t think of any other way to vent his inbuilt frustration. Hell, with everything going on with the house and the detestable changes of his body, he can’t even remember what it feels like to be _normal_.

He’s tried to reflect on it, to think back on the sentiment of a typical day, but with nothing going the way it should, it’s hard to envision anything other than fervor, warmth, and pain, and over the course of these last four days that triadic combination’s left him distant in his communication, less compliant to confrontation, and intermittently exhausted in appearance and speed.

Today’s proving to be one of those days, and Christ Almighty it’s the worst Rick’s ever felt.

He wants his heat to be over already. He wants to overcome this inner battle between his Omega and his consciousness and come out on top as a _somebody_ , not a _something_ or _somewhat_ successful. No. With his ideals already in mind, he doesn’t need moderation. He needs the biological animal in him to stop fighting back like it’s pissed off at him every two seconds of every day and realize that he’s doing _this_ for them.

Holding back.

After having spent the better half of his life trying to bury himself under suppressants and hating his biology to the point of feeling bipolar, Rick knows that’s not what his Omega wants to hear any more than he does, but at least he _knows_ , period, which’s the metric. With knowing as another form of sense, that’s where they differ… in their faculties. As somebody capable of thought, he can _think_. As a pure instinct, his Omega just _does_. It acts on nature. It doesn’t care about pragmatism or that it can bring chaos through passion. It just wants what it wants.

Love.

It’s always been about love, but because of Michonne’s suggestion that – _since this is home now_ – they should start reinforcing the lot and building up a fenced wall with whatever materials they can scrounge, it’s turned into a goddamn lovesick mess. And while it’s bad enough that it’s gotten to the point where he can’t fully look at anybody without feeling the rouse of sexual excitement, to have them all outside helping at once with securing the perimeter of the house they’ve chosen as their own is like a whole new level of superfluous torture.

Rick can’t concentrate, for one.

He’s done enough to _look_ productive, sure, but provided that the cold air and the stiffness of his jeans both make it easier to think in terms of heat and harder to focus on the task at hand, the rods inside his eyes have been everywhere but where they should be and spacing out has involuntarily become his new pastime.

Abraham’s his latest attraction, being a man of volume when in the company of his human friend and his female Beta, and although he’s really only been with them since reuniting Glenn with Maggie, when Rick’s influenced by a mood anybody with strong-enough pheromones is eye-candy enough. To hell with how they haven’t entirely gotten over their trust issues or the way things should be run. In a heartbeat, he’d blindly forget all of it for the tiniest bit of solace, which’s the scare factor and how badly the situation’s gotten.

Rick takes a meditative breath as he closes his eyes tightly. All morning he’s been trying to counter his concession of impulses by imagining that he’s alone, but so far his imagination hasn’t done anything except make things worse.

Without anything solid to hold onto or ground himself on, all he’s been doing is thinking and all he has left is thought. Buildings were created from thought and so were unions. Thought’s a powerful tool and Rick wanted it to be his asset, but even after harnessing it, it hasn’t been enough to will his nature away because it’s not that simple. It’s not how it _works_ anymore. Rehearsed reasoning can’t outshine primitiveness. Belatedly, he’s figuring this out now, but even then, even with his brain grasping such straws, there’s very little his pride’ll let him do about it.

By and large, it’s to blame for a lot of decisions in his life and it’s that egotism still that gets in the way of his judgment every time. Stopping his mind from seeking solutions has only been the start of it and convincing his body to close in on itself to the point of running his might thin to the marrow of his bones won’t be the last.

Rick can assert to that harsh reality check as he reopens his eyes, but only because he doesn’t think he has the strength to disagree anymore. Frankly, he’s bushed, a basket case in the flesh, and as the sun continues to beat down on him like he’s made of materials meant to absorb the full force of its rays, the signs of capitulation are right there with the heat – the seismic shaking in his hands and the pails of sweat on his skin – which has him seconds away from blindsiding his dignity and literally drawing a line in the sand. It’d be easy to with how he already has a shovel in hand, but the interpretation has him at a standstill because that’s what matters the most.

The meaning.

A line in the earth should symbolize something that he _shouldn’t_ cross, not something that he’s _looking_ to cross, and if he drew one now that’d be the only translation he’d get.

 _Here,_ it would read. _If I could break any day it’d be here._

Rick pushes some air through his nose in substitute of a scoff that got lost somewhere in the innards of his throat. Two days ago he’d believably told himself, Daryl included, that he’d be able to handle his impulses, that he’d be able to keep them in-check while still keeping everything together, but now all it seems like is a lie on top of another lie. Like damn naivety.

Why? Because he’s _here_ , under the rule of a very sadistic Mother Nature and an unreasonable gravitational pull, and realistically all it’d take is one step, one move in the wrong direction and in the direction of the wrong person, and then it’d be over. There’d be no going back to the way things were, and with everything already stretched for control Rick needs that amity. He needs friendly relationships and goodwill, not to be objectified and stereotyped under society’s gaze or whatever society has left to offer, which isn’t as much as it used to be but it’s that lasting impression that makes him want to continue building his life and reputation on what others think.

In a world as lost as the one they’re living in, first and last impressions are everything, as is trust, and with how important reliability is in their group Rick doesn’t like withholding any sorts of information from his friends anymore than Daryl likes playing the middle man, but in the long run the thought to tell them about him hasn’t ever crossed his cruel mind once. Especially after losing Lori.

Lori was a Beta, but she was _his_ _Beta_ and mate nonetheless, and following her death – more so after what happened with Shane – he told himself that he’d never present again. He _told_ himself that he would hold onto her memory as she had held onto his secret… or, in the very least, he’s _tried_ to tell himself that, but since then all it’s really felt like he’s been doing is pitching wide of the mark and into a bucket as rusted as his experience in control.

His self-control.

Rick hasn’t dealt with such strong urges of fertility for a little over a decade, but as a former cop from the small town of Cynthiana, Kentucky and as somebody who used to be interested in communal living, he still remembers his fair share of reactions to _his kind_ to last him a lifetime. The ill-treatment, the compulsion, and the greedy looks. He can already see a few of those same expressions subconsciously on the faces of some people in his group when they meet throughout the day, but everybody who wears one fortunately doesn’t perceive it like he does. They’ve only gotten as far as concern, worry about his mental health, or fear that he’s still unstable from the loss of the prison, and he wants to keep it that way. Particularly when there’re far more taxing matters at stake.

Like the fence.

Rick’s indebted that today’s task isn’t as demanding as those before it, but if they wanted the same protection they had at the prison for the house they have now they would need these holes dug, posts planted, and the board-by-board fence set up along the property’s boundary line within the next two days. Considering the ground they have to cover before then, the timeline’s a short one, but feasibly it can be done and it’s what everybody agreed on when noticing the number of walkers drifting in and out of the neighborhood. Even Rick. But even after he started with every intention of pulling his own, at the rate he’s going he might not make that deadline.

Dammit. It’s nearly high noon. He should have one or two posts in the ground by now, but instead he’s a mile away from his first. He _should_ be picking up the pace right now, but instead all he wants to do is wash his hands of responsibility, find a lonely corner down the adjoining block, and curl up and die.

Dying sounds twenty times easier than living with how his skin’s feeling like it’s harboring an inferno of love-bugs and brimstone, but realistically Rick would never allow himself to act on how something just _sounds_. That’d be puerile and selfish. He still has a family he has to persevere for, his son Carl and Judith, and with that in mind Rick slowly wheedles himself into favoring his feet a little wider and continuing his dig, into looking like he’s doing more than simply standing around in absent thought. The effort to make progress is there in every means, but the moment he moves his elbows away from his sides the spade suddenly feels too heavy for him, like all the gravity in the universe is against him.

Only him and nobody else.

The singularity’s almost unfair, but instead of letting the illusion win Rick tries to lift the shovel anyways, and as best he can he brings the broad blade up and then down into a softer patch of earth he’s been spooning like salt with a strength he doesn’t have. He tries not to give his infirmity any thought, but pruning a hidden root leading up to one of the towering trees nearby unluckily becomes his breaking point, and his snout twitches in a partial grimace when sensing the stunted impact of his efforts jackhammer through his fingers, hum at the tip of the metal spade, and rebound straight into his center core.

Rick abandons the blade half in the earth after that and brusquely folds his hands overtop the spade’s medium-length handle, plops his forehead down onto the back-rivets of his knuckles, and leans heavily on the upright wood of the shovel like he would a walking stick in a huffing fit of pique.

Digging a hole shouldn’t be this hard for him. It _really_ shouldn’t. He’s tunneled through more mounds of dirt than anybody else during his time at the prison and never once has he felt the fruit of his labor until a week later or the following day. Never immediately and never like _this_ – to the point of requiring support. He’d rather go without if it was up to him, but with his body hurting the way it is, needless to say, he knows he needs it. And it’s on that familiar notion that he hopes his hunch looks more like a rest to anybody else working nearby, a stretch even.

He himself would rather think of his posture as something as ingenuous as exercising his muscles, but as his sexual organs remind him, he doesn’t get to employ his mind in terms of innocence.

There’s only heat. Heat fanning his thoughts and heat smoldering every riverlike inch of his veins.

A winter breeze brings that brutal reminder closer to home, touching Rick’s neck like a cold compress he desperately wants but can’t have, and he groans as he relaxes into the inequitable contrast. His eyes go closed again as he rearranges his bodyweight between his legs, slumping further into what little comfort the gentle wind offers and pushing his hips sideways to compensate the curve of his spine. The collar of his jacket tickles the nape of his hairline as he continues his search for relief, sending droplets of thick sweat dolloping from his crimped hair, but he parries it by turning his head to the side next, letting the airstream evaporate whatever it can reach while still being cautious about his scent glands.

That caution falls short, though, when the wonder of what it would feel like to have an Alpha behind him inopportunely hits like a speed demon out of hell – the Alpha’s cock and knot distending inside him, clothespining him open and filling his track with oceans of fiery seed.

It’s a sensation that crashes over Rick like a volcanic landslide, leaving him predisposed and unable to control the idea before it consumes him, and with the shovel still in his grasp he blindly rocks into the phenomenon. Back and forth, back and forth. His body almost swells with the stimulating motions of sex, but as soon as he hears the tiny metal of his wedding ring rut against the wood of the spade’s handle he quickly tenses back to his senses and wills his nerves steady through a held breath as if it’s what he needs to completely calm them, feeling his chest constrict from the restriction the whole while.

The urge to accept air comes no later than a few seconds after, pacing his pulse like a stampede of hooves on the sensitive cones of his ears and like a thousand jackrabbits against the boney frame of his ribcage at the absence of oxygen, but Rick manages to ignore the plea until a good thirty more before letting all he’s withdrawn rush out of his mouth like a stream of invisible water. Like his life source. His lungs thank him for the discontinued suffocation with a subsequent breath, but his Omega doesn’t show the same gratitude and his stomach snappishly cramps up like a form of punishment, roiling his gut with the misery of his unmated heat and compelling him to suck through clenched teeth at the strength the spasm holds as his shoulders draw up and forward, into another hunch.

A deeper hunch, a hunch that could draw attention, and although Rick would rather wait his episode out as he is – head low, shoulders high, and eyes clamped shut – his backbone doesn’t keep its arc any longer than it should in dread of the wrong gaze. Formidably, even an obliging one.

_“You’re in pain.”_

With an embarrassed start, Rick darts his eyes wide-open and twists at the waist to find Daryl perched on the steps of the front porch of the house behind him, no more than twelve-feet away. His vision takes a minute to interchange from myopic to farsightedness, but even as the distance in-between becomes clearer he still finds himself squinting. Perhaps even glaring at the boldness of the statement.

It doesn’t take Daryl long to notice the look of censure, but he doesn’t shy away from it. He merely shrugs into it when realizing that he must’ve caught Rick off guard and waves a wrist in an open form of acknowledgement, like he’s letting Rick know _s’just me_ through body language now instead of words. Rick accepts Daryl’s existence with a grunt, but that’s about it. He ignores the initial comment by wobbling his neglected spade in the dirt and passing distracted glances down at the hole he’s supposed to have been working on. Although when getting a better look at it, it’s too shallow to even be considered such a thing. A dog could do better when burying a bone.

_“Rick—”_

“Really, it’s not that bad.” Rick says quickly and through a more focused glance, half-expecting his denial to knock Daryl off the subject. But a Dixon’s determination is something else.

“Ya stoop when it is…” Daryl snorts through an indirect point, fingers habitually preening at the cuticles of his nails. “And so far you’ve stooped like an ol’man five times in the last ten minutes.”

Rick “Hmms,” faintly at how his bluff’s been called, and while it’s problematic that he’s just been put on the spot, a slight smile somehow manages to find its unwelcomed way to his lips when thinking about how Daryl would’ve made a fine damn detective in another life. “You have anythang better to do besides watchin’ me?” He looks at the man sideways.

Daryl makes a little noise at the back his throat at the question, something that sounds like a grumbled “Nrnn,” but aside from that he doesn’t dedicate another utterance to answering it. He straightforwardly pushes himself up from the porch, wipes any dust on his hands onto his ragged jeans, and walks closer. Closer and closer.

The husky smell of Alpha consumes Rick like the belly of a beast as Daryl stops in front of him, and the intimate distance immediately prompts Rick’s instincts to go into overdrive. He breathes shallower at the air in hopes of stalling his taste buds from savoring Daryl’s overly-impressive scent – a scent that’s only been trouncing his because of his precedent abuse of pills – except petering out the pheromones of an Alpha isn’t as easy as it was yesterday or the day before. In fact, it’s harder. _Damn_ hard. Especially in the face of Daryl’s coming suggestion, an _offer_ , which has a part of Rick listening, but at the same time in cold sweat.

“Man, if ya need me to, to do somethin’ _more_ fer ya… Just ask. I can help.”

“No.” Rick’s already shaking his head at the slightest hesitation and consideration in his own voice. Christ. Why did Daryl have to catch him on a bad day? “No, you can’t, Daryl. You _can’t_ help me anymore than you already have.”

The emphasis around the pessimistic four-letter word is more than audible in its repetition, and it zaps at the air like an electric current. Daryl’s features turn down like Rick predicted they would a thousand leagues ago, eyes tapering like paper and mouth going all tight-lipped, but even with that foresight on his side the hair on Rick’s arms still manages to split and stand on end. Daryl looks petulant, at his limit, and like an animal inclined to bite in response to what he’s just been told, and Rick isn’t surprised in the least when they both end up staring at one another like they’re struggling to figure each other out—

because somewhere deep down in the pits of his stomach he can feel that he’s being too obdurate in his decisions and somewhere deep in the back of his stressed mind he knows that Daryl’s only trying to facilitate his pain – their _mutual_ pain.

With the days getting longer with winter, Rick hasn’t overlooked how his nights have gotten more sleepless with Daryl, and Daryl hasn’t even tried to hide his anger about watching Rick hurt himself through aloofness either, meaning it’s really only been a matter of time before this moment, before something or somebody finally gives. Rick’s almost there, but short on coaxing. Daryl can tell, and instead of walking away in a tantrum like he’s already done within the week, he stalks right into Rick’s personal space, rips Rick’s shovel from the ground like King Kong, and attempts to finish digging the hole Rick started in a voice millimeters from a hiss.

“Ya remember what ya told me in the bathroom? How _this ain’t you_?” Daryl waits a beat for a response, but when it’s obvious that he isn’t getting one he jumpstarts the answer to his own question with a heavily spatted, “Bullshit,” before motioning at Rick with his chin and giving the shovel one great push with his chest. “What ain’t you is _this_. Doin’ this to yerself. Givin’ up without even tryin’ta make things work. Fuckin’ try, man. Ya don’ know nothin’ ‘til ya do.”

Daryl’s attention single-mindedly drops right back to the hole as he finishes his rant, and Rick slowly tenses his jaw shut when realizing how his mouth’d slivered open in listening. He doesn’t know if Daryl would ever consider what he’s just said as a form of browbeating or backchat, seeing as the man looks satisfied that he got whatever’s been bothering him off his chest, but for the record Rick still feels like he was just raked over the coals by him. That, and also strangely nostalgic, like he’s just been reminded about something he forgot… which he has.

“You’re right…” It takes a while, but Rick finally gets over the huge lump of nervousness in his throat and the delirium of his internal Omega. He can’t believe that he’s going against his moral precepts or that he’s just given Daryl’s offer some serious thought, but as he finds Daryl’s ethereal-blue eyes looking up at him in surprise he accepts it all as _said and done_ and subtly drops his gaze to the front of Daryl’s belt as to entail how far he’s willing to go now that he’s been beguiled. “But not all the way.” Rick says gruffly, like it’s imperative it be known.

“Tonight, then?” Daryl asks, voice feathery like he’s almost afraid he just rushed the request.

Rick looks up towards the sky on a beat and then nods, head feeling the heaviest it’s ever been on his shoulders as he moves it and mind second-guessingly hoping that he’s making the right call here, here and right now. Because if he isn’t… there’s a cost. There’s _always_ a cost for the wrong choice, and the next time he has to pay a price it may not be something he can simply lock, stock, and barrel.

Only, that’s looking to be a wager he’ll just have to make and see. If he wants any sort of deliverance he’ll have to, regardless.

“Where?” Rick asks as he motions for his shovel back so he can resume his digging again, praying that this hole won’t somehow turn into his grave. “Where did you have in mind?”


	7. Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Xenrae, ravenhairedtrickster, and saccara for your recent comments on the previous chapter. Your words were very inspirational and were just what we needed to get back on our feet for this fic. It wasn't our intention to leave this story for so long honestly, writer's block has been cruel on this work, making us wonder where we originally intended to take it. But its future is a little clearer now. Thank you all for your patience and for putting up with us. We hope everyone enjoys this newest chapter. Cheers.

“Next door,” Daryl eventually tells him, and Rick’s breath wanes like the shovel in the earth when he brings his foot down onto the shoulder of it.

“Next door,” Rick repeats without conviction, feeling his heart flutter a little in embarrassment.

Daryl’s honesty is admirable, but it can’t be there. _There_ is too close. The others, their family, they could overhear things, even catch a scent on the wrong cross-breeze, which would render this arrangement between them fruitless. Maybe he should have been more specific.

“No.” Rick shakes his head, disliking that he has to disagree with Daryl so soon, especially after Daryl has practically gift-wrapped this moment for him, but his dignity is on the line here so Daryl will have to make an exception. “Think farther out.”

“The street over?” Daryl tries again.

 _That’s better_ , Rick supposes with the smallest roll of his neck, but now the question is, “Which one?”

Daryl makes a low, guttural sound as he visibly mulls over an answer. “Any one of ‘em could do. But most homes that ain’t trashed are on Addison Street.”

“Addison Street?” Rick’s tongue flicks out across his bottom lip. He wants to say that he recognizes the name, that he’s walked the street before during one of his neighborhood excursions, but with every passing day his heat has been taking his sense of direction. He can’t be too sure about anything anymore. “That’s…” His voice trails.

“That way.” Daryl uses his eyes to point over Rick’s shoulder, being as discreet as he can under the watchful attendance of the others.

Rick thanks him silently, but doesn’t look for the same reason. Instead, he keeps his gaze steady and on Daryl, trusts Daryl’s wishing-pool eyes, looks through them, and lets his Omega try to decipher them like code. For the first few seconds it seems to work, but that’s before he accidently loses himself in reading them, their pull strong like a physical hand. Daryl’s beginning to get that presence about him, that irresistible magnetism that makes Rick feel like he’s being drawn into attraction, encouraged to meet it, to get spellbound by it. And with Rick so focused on trying not to let that happen, to resist with all his might, he momentarily forgets about the direction being hinted towards. Was it north…?

“South.” Daryl elaborates when noticing the blanketed stare, ignorant that he’s the cause of it, and Rick’s absorption breaks then.

“Any specific house catch your eye?” Rick asks, curious, and watches as Daryl shrugs.

It’s only one side of Daryl’s body that lifts, his left shoulder, but in spite of that limitation, Rick can vividly imagine every single muscle that makes an Alpha tensing and releasing beneath the worn fabric of Daryl’s leather jacket, and his Omega pits a shiver. Not once has he forgotten about Daryl’s kiss in the bathroom, how easy it had been to give in to it, how it made him weak in the knees and weak-willed, filling his mind with only the want to rut, to present himself to Daryl, to lay himself facedown and let himself be dominated, his hole filled.

Rick’s grip on the shovel tightens to stop the tremble in his hands and to keep his mind away from the pulsing between his legs, the wetness overflowing from him. He really hopes that these last couple of nights sleeping next to one another has boosted their tolerance enough to contravene the carting of their textbook roles and impulses. So far it seems like it has, in some aspects at least. But if it hasn’t… No. His grip goes tighter. Maybe it’s best he doesn’t think about that just yet, he tells himself, then watches less directly as Daryl finishes his shrug and those shoulders so strong become even again.

Though perhaps _even_ is the wrong word to use to describe the way in which they line up, for Daryl’s shoulders are never really even, not with how he’s always favoring his weight in one leg over the other in his stances and having his body at that constant angle as if he’s ready to prowl. He’s doing it now.

“I don’t know. Maybe the corner house?” Daryl shifts, thinking back. “It wasn’t in any better shape than the others, but if distance is the problem I think there’ll work best.”

“How so?” Risk asks.

Daryl flops a hand by his side. It almost could have been a point, but he catches himself. “Figure it’s far enough away where we can’t be disturbed, but near enough where we’d know if we were needed.”

Rick feels his eyelashes flutter. “I mean,” when Daryl puts it like that, “if you’re sure—”

“Ain’t.” Daryl admits, and there’s that one-shouldered shrug again. “But it’s your call.”

“Hrnn.” Rick nods, then falls quiet as he looks down at the shovel in his hands.

Daryl’s right. It is his call. His to make this meet happen and his to follow through with.

Rick treads his feet in place. “I mean,” maybe what he should have said was, “I don’t see why not…” He rephrases, his voice trembling in trust. Also nervousness. Because as of right now he’s not running away from his heat. He’s running towards it. And he hasn’t done that since… well, since he vowed not to.

“There, then?” Daryl keeps his attention on Rick as he seeks approval, his face fixed with what could only be anticipation.

“Yeah… I’ll meet you there later.” Rick manages to say, distantly but unmistakably, and after a nod of his own Daryl is leaving; moving around Rick.

Rick turns his body to watch him go, even steps to the side though the distance between them doesn’t require him to, and as Daryl walks by, Rick studies the wings on the back of Daryl’s jacket until both their outline and their wearer are out of sight. Many times Rick has made a note of them, mostly when driving the Honda behind Daryl’s motorcycle during those past runs for the prison, but now that Rick’s really looking they mean something more to him than just a stitched design, than just something pretty to look at. And throughout the remainder of his dig and the hours that follow he mindlessly finds himself thinking on them, wondering if he’ll get to inherit their meaning tonight.

Their freedom.

In every way, Rick wants them to be just that, wants to believe Daryl to be that somebody who can lift him out of his heat like an angel. But then there’s that small detail, that one little factor.

This meet with Daryl. It can’t be seen as a want. He can’t _want_ this. If he starts wanting, there’s no re-leashing that desire to have for the sake of having. No. This meet, though it pains Rick to think it so, will have to be seen as an obligation. A necessity, maybe. Not because he can’t go back on given words, but because if he wants his Omega to stop its deep yearnings something needs to be done. Something good. Because Rick needs good for once, needs it like the skin needs vitamins from the sun; needs it like his lungs need ai—

_“—Dad.”_

Carl is suddenly in front of him, hand tapping at his arm, and Rick sucks in so much air into his lungs so fast that the gasp is more than audible. A few turned heads tells Rick this when he looks around to find himself no longer outside but inside – in the kitchen, standing in one corner of it, among random conversations and a simmering pot of dinner food on the stove. He must have spaced out, he guesses, although _when_ is unclear. His hands feel like they’re still holding the shovel, though it’s only Judith, who is staring up at him in his arms, one of her chubby fingers placed curiously in her mouth.

“Dad.” Carl says again, giving him a weird look. “I asked if you needed one?”

“One what?” Rick clears his throat, cupping Judith’s small head as he shifts her with his stance.

“A plate.” Carl elaborates, motioning a paper one at him. His arm is heavy at the elbow, the food on the plate slopping one way, indicating that he’s been offering it for a while.

“Oh. I, uh…” Rick stutters stupidly, unable to bring himself to tell Carl that he’s not hungry. He’s already too skinny thanks to his heat, undernourished to any glance; the excuse just wouldn’t fly. So to avoid confrontation Rick says he does and takes the plate anyway, accepting it only to try and get Judith to eat in his stead as he sides her to his hip and drifts into a room separate from the others.

It’s become a habit of his to do so recently, to seek seclusion. More than a few eyes have picked up on the pattern, but nobody asks the reason behind it or tries to stop him.

He’s their leader, an ‘Alpha.’ They respect the title, know of the pressure attached to it, and as a result the rest of the evening continues without him.

Abraham and his group congregate in the dining room and fall into a game of poker with an incomplete deck of cards. Maggie and Glenn cuddle up together on the living room couch, expressions comfortable. Carl finds a spot near them on the floor where he can sprawl out and read a comic book he’s found somewhere. Carol hangs around in the kitchen to make things neat for tomorrow with Michonne’s help. Daryl, well, he finds a corner to keep to himself, all while Rick walks Judith around the house.

All is quiet for a time, calm, but in a way too conscious, and once most start turning in for bed Rick quietly passes Judith over to Carol and moves outside to stand on the front porch for some ‘fresh air.’

Of course, that’s his prepared excuse if anybody decides to join him. But it’s not a total lie either.

He does actually need a break from the confined space of the house. He just thinks it’s better to be brief. It would certainly beat being caught off guard and accidentally finding himself admitting the truth. Although, if he thinks a little more, even if he did wind up admitting his real reason – that all the accumulated smells inside were starting to get to him in a dangerous way, making his mind hazy and spinny – there wasn’t much a listener could take away from the confession. In fact, it wouldn’t disclose anything about him being an Omega. To any human, equally those in the Alpha-Beta hierarchy, it would simply mean that he’s on his cycle and the most trouble he would get out of that being known would be a question.

Two, actually. And he’s heard them before.

The first time was at the prison, with Michonne. He and she were standing up in one of the guard towers together one day. He was supposed to relieve her of her watch, but somehow they started talking. Michonne said something about her heat, and to reciprocate Rick had told her something silly back. This was during his last heat cycle on his pills, so he felt he could joke with her and replied something about horniness, which was when she teased him, asking with a very amused expression ‘on a scale from one-to-ten who did he want to _fuck_ the most.’

As for the second time, it had been completely random. It was after a week or two of having Abraham and his team with their group. Everybody was getting tired and shuffling to a stop on the side of the road to discuss where to turn in for one night and Rick had made a habit to speak his opinion first, his words having to do with a gut-feeling this time, about one direction scenting better than the other, and Eugene had perked with his scientific curiosity, asking quite openly ‘if his experience as an _Alpha_ was any different from Abraham’s.’

Fuck. Alpha.

Rick swallows thickly around his Adam’s apple. It’s almost ridiculous how selective his brain has become over the last four days, this he will not lie, and no amount of stubbornness can make him deny how those two words rekindle that same confliction of trust and nervousness he felt when giving Daryl his word around noon. The trust isn’t so much there as it was before, its strength has been somewhat dwindling, but the nervousness is and it’s amplified and aggressive; nearly constricting like paralysis. And for a minute Rick swears that the deafening thudding in his ears is his heartbeat out loud, but when he turns around he quickly notices that it’s only the sound of footsteps on the dry wood of the porch. And that those footsteps belong to Daryl himself.

Daryl’s joining him outside, crossbow characteristically slung over his shoulder. Rick eyes it first, then Daryl, letting the Alpha’s company click. They hadn’t really discussed a time for their meet, so this could only mean that Daryl’s out here taking his being out here as a tip-off that he’s ready to make tonight happen. A small stare between them has this settling in a little more, and if this was the only moment in which Rick could have told Daryl that he’s having second thoughts he misses it. Because after a few more seconds of idle ogling Daryl is suddenly leaving, taking it upon himself to sneak away from the house first all the while throwing out a brief nod.

 _Follow when ya can_ , is the understood message behind the gesture, and Rick takes a shuddering breath from the porch as he watches Daryl depart with footsteps as quiet as a cat on the hunt.

 _I will_ , Rick wagers inwardly. He kind of has to now, though not right away. He lets himself linger behind a bit, waits until he re-convinces himself the best he can of all Daryl’s reminded him; how giving up isn’t him; how he has to _try_ , otherwise he won’t know; and after Rick’s breath is five minutes to the wind he’s tucking his hands tightly into the front pockets of his jacket and putting on his best game face.

With a bounce in his steps, he descends the porch and begins his tread across the front lawn, throwing an occasional glance out over it as he does and listening to the wintry crunching of the grass beneath his boots. Only once does he look back towards the house, but it’s so brief that it’s more like a pause, a moment to get his bearings, and after it’s over his focus is back on the property line and he’s scaling for a section of the fence that he can slip through without ruining anybody’s hard work.

Opportunely, nobody had gotten around to nailing up any boards today. All their time this morning was spent planting posts in holes, so it doesn’t take Rick too long to find a reasonable area between two that fit his width. The space between each post is spacious enough, giving him plenty of legroom, and without much effort he’s shimmying over to the other side while humoring the short-lived sentiment of feeling like a teenager again. Christ, does he ever with how he’s slinking out after dark and sneaking around like he’s about to meet an unapproved lover, but not for one second does he forget where he is or what’s around him as he steps away from the opposite side of the fence and continues towards his destination.

If anything, he’s not allowed to forget.

The blood on his clothes, the nighttime sounds of walkers, his Colt Python holstered and hanging loosely from his belt. Even the red machete flopping away by his side keeps him remembering that the dangers never stop coming, that safety is dependent on who has what, and that claws and fangs won’t always make the cut as a form of defense. And it’s reminders such as these that have Rick reminiscent of how everybody is bearing some sort of arms nowadays, of how Alphas-Betas-and-Omegas have had to adapt to the ways of humans and resort to using man-made weapons in place of their nature-given strengths in order to seek protection, how physical power and heightened senses aren’t to be feared anymore, how they aren’t sharper than swung blades or faster than guns.

Rick sucks at the cracks between his teeth and turns his hands into fists inside his jacket as he rounds onto the street over, sensing his nails scrape the clamming skin of his palms the tighter they’re clenched to stop their still-nervous shake.

These days the feeling of being protected has been a tried one, sought by everybody and by any means possible. It’s never a guaranteed thing, but Rick is determined to feel protected in any way he can, and the condoms he has tucked away in the back pocket of his faded jeans are there to help him with that.

Like his gun and his machete, they’re a precaution, a preventative measure for the situation he’s about to find himself in, and he’s set on making Daryl wear one. Daryl might not see the purpose behind it, but Rick does. Though he won’t explain it to him. Daryl, if he doesn’t already, doesn’t need to be on a need-to-know basis about everything there is to know about Omegas, about why they’re treated like prizes to be had, or why they’re fought over between humans, Alphas, and Betas alike. He only needs to give Rick this, this chance at finding relief, and they’ll take it from there. They’ll use tonight as a test, see if it works and where they fit with one another now that their positions are as diverse as the Atlantic and Pacific, as north from south…

Oh, right. South.

Rick stops dead in his tracks as a pang of misguidance overtakes him and a knot in his gut has him sweating even more than he already is, adding to the uncomfortable stickiness of his heat and pulling further at what’s already crimping of his hair on his forehead.

“Shit,” he mutters into the coldness of the night air, his breath visibly hanging in front of his face as he turns half his body and takes in the distance behind him.

The walk hasn’t been a long one, but with his head so wrapped up in thought he hasn’t really been paying attention to where his feet have been leading him. For all he knows he could have gone astray, that this could be another street entirely than the one he wants, and his lip curls at his oversight before making the motion of doubling back to the house everybody’s calling ‘home.’ He’ll start again, he tells himself, take notice this time around. Though just as he’s ready to retrace his steps on the notion that his sense of direction has once again failed him, he hears a high-pitched sound from not too far away; a sound that has his ears perking.

It’s a whistle. Daryl’s whistle.

Rick’s listened to it enough times to recognize the tune, and he efficiently whistles back in response. Then spins in the middle of the street to find it. _Up ahead_ , _keep comin’,_ it beckons when it resounds again and Rick’s pulse immediately evens to steadier beat as he follows it straight to Daryl, who is lingering a ways up the street; on it but a few driveways down. He must have known that Rick would lose his way and waited outside like a landmark, and this makes Rick flush a shade darker than pink as he moves ahead to stand by Daryl’s side.

Thankfully enough, the light cast from the moon isn’t that bright tonight. It’s a cloudy night, the shadows giving some concealment to Rick’s blush, and for this Rick is indebted because the soft touch Daryl supplies to his elbow when they meet, leading in its contact, makes him even redder. For many hours to come he’s actually not counting on thinking straight, and every second after Daryl ushers him into their chosen house, leaving outside the hungry noises of a nearby walker, Rick can only hope that he’s in good hands as he lets Daryl be his guide, his Alpha – no, _an_ Alpha, somebody who is showing him where to go, all the while looking unthreatened in their new setting.

Daryl must’ve swept the house for walkers before waiting for him outside, Rick figures, and gets unspoken confirmation when watching Daryl tackle the staircase by rungs of twos and with confidence. It’s something to be admired, the way Daryl moves, and after waiting a beat Rick follows in Daryl’s footsteps; in a speed slower, treads closer together, with a hand running parallel to the rail and his neck craned back, already looking upwards in trepidation of the top.

Because there’s symbolic meaning in here somewhere, he’s sure.

The steps are a manifestation of his situation, an obstacle that he’s trying to rise above. And the summit of the stairs reflects a decision point, a defining moment.

Of this, Rick is even surer as he reaches that top step, which conclusively becomes the hardest tread for him to overcome, and his pause is enough to reveal his conviction. But since his dominant foot is already loyal and in-transit there’s no turning back. He has to take it, to get over this hump and cross that threshold – _to try_ , which is what tonight is supposed to be about – so he forces himself to do so.

In a step Rick straightens, and on the second story he immediately finds himself alone. Though he doesn’t falter in the face of abandonment the way a deserted child would. He simply lets observation govern him and unhurriedly pushes at the first door he notices as upset to locate Daryl in what must be the master bedroom of the house; air inside light and dimensions bigger than the room they’re sharing at the other address. It’s a nice change from what they’re used to, but at this point the extra space is immaterial.

They aren’t going to need it, only the privacy it offers.

“We doin’ this like that one time?” Daryl asks during a quick peek out the bedroom window, like he’s checking if either of them has been followed. This prompts a soft snort from Rick.

“We weren’t.” Rick reassures him, answering the action not the question, and Daryl shrugs without a glance.

“Never know.” Daryl says, then turns and motions in brief at the bed before removing his crossbow from his shoulder. “So are we?” He asks again, a little more focused as he sets his weapon on the floor.

Rick shakes his head in remembrance of the last hot night between them, the time he and Daryl got a little too frisky in one of the prison’s spare cells. It was a good Alpha-on-‘Alpha’ relationship then, the mood the right sticky, the interaction atop the mattress manageable and perfect all at once, but it can’t happen like that again. Their world is now poles apart. Rick’s world, at least.

“No.” Rick says, and before he forgets he shuffles out one of the condoms he’s brought with him and tosses it at Daryl. “Here. Put this on.”

Daryl’s hand goes out on instinct and he catches the little packet surprisingly well in the dark. “Seriously, man?” He gives the condom a jerky wave like he would a sugar sachet, glance weird. “Ya know this ain’t gonna hold it all, right?”

Rick purses his lips. While he’s only been with a Beta, Lori, yes, he does know. He knows from crime reports and rape scenes that the cum of an Alpha comes thick and in bulk, just as much as he knows that Daryl isn’t like those he’s had to deal with during his time as a cop. Daryl’s not a murderer, not driven by sinful acts of greed or narrow-minded behavior. He’s a provider, a protector. He’s somebody here, with him, offering to help out of friendship, not hunger. And that means a lot to Rick. He just has to make sure it stays that way.

“Let’s get one thang straight, Daryl. I’m not here to _present_ to you, to get on all fours and let you take me like a whore.” Rick’s face mars slightly on the word, then softens alongside his voice. “You’re here to do me a favor.” He nods at the condom. “So do me a favor and put it on.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then…” Rick’s voice catches in his throat as some quick thought in the back of his mind prompts him to run. To leave. To consider this meet a bad idea and a booty call too soon. And as Daryl moves to take a step closer for whatever reason it suddenly becomes a fight or flight thought, an instinctive response, and Rick acts on it.

He turns towards the door in an attempt to escape from where he is, what he’s brought upon himself, looking about ready to have a panic attack. Skin flushed, features emotional, and eyes feral. Daryl tracks after him, somehow gets ahead of him and manages to stop him in the middle of the doorway, all without force. His body is wide and enough, what he resorts to using alongside his Alpha pheromones, and immediately Rick’s hesitating. He doesn’t push to get by and Daryl doesn’t touch just yet.

“‘Ey. You runnin’ out on me?” Daryl’s voice is deep, crumbly, but innocent. Christ, so much innocence.

“No.” Rick murmurs. If Daryl isn’t going to move, he guesses not. “I, I just need to...” To not do this? That doesn’t sound right. He’s supposed to be trying here.

“Ya know I ain’t gonna make ya do nothin’ you don’ wanna… right?”

“I know, but…” Going through with this, it’s harder than Rick thought it was going to be. “Talk to me, Daryl.” Rick says and dammit he’s pleading. “I need… I need you to talk me into this, talk to me like you did before.”

“‘K.” Daryl nods, the dip of his chin ever so faint as he takes Rick by the hips.

The intimacy that comes from the action has him noticing the sweat drenching Rick’s body more than ever, sweat that seems to give Rick a lustrous glow and make every bead look as though it can be lapped at by tongue. Each salty droplet would probably taste like beauty if attraction had a flavor, taste as good as the feeling of arousal now evoked by the Omega scent that’s beginning to strengthen with every minute passed, but Daryl is careful not to touch flesh against flesh for the time being; aware that it could spook Rick further, give them both the wrong impression.

That heat radiating from Rick though, so good.

“Forget everthin’ just fer tonight.” Daryl tells him. “Don’t think of nothin’ but me and you.”

Rick almost wants to laugh bitterly. “I’m tryin’,” he has been, “but that’s the problem. You and me. Alpha and…” He flops a hand by his side, his eyelids droopy and heavy at the corresponding term of _Omega_. How sharp it tastes on the tip of his tongue. “What you’re askin’, it’s hard. _Different_. This situation’s different. I, I’m different.”

“I don’t know.” Daryl shrugs, trying to sound supportive. “Ya seem the same ta me, ‘cept for that… that scent ya got goin’ on.”

Rick’s almost never heard Daryl stutter and wants to roll his eyes. “You can’t lie to me.”

“Ain’t here to lie to ya. Just wanna make ya feel good.”

“How, Daryl? Tell me _how_.” Rick’s Omega asks that one, whispers it, but the him in there is also curious of the answer.

“Gonna fill ya up.” Daryl starts, leading Rick with him by the hips until they’re standing at the foot of the bed, thumbs running soothing circles into the fabric of Rick’s clothes in imagination of the skin beneath the jacket and shirt, how he can push health back into the taut stomach beneath that. How he can swell it with life. “Gonna care fer ya. Gonna make ya all…” _mine._ “…better.” He finishes, carefully. “Gonna do a whole lot’ta ya, Rick.”

“Are you now?” There’s a pathetic smile, there, waiting on Rick’s lips, but they’re so tight they don’t let it form.

“Mhmm hmm.” Daryl drawls, bringing Rick closer and closer to him; within kissing distance. “Gonna fix ya, take away yer pain…”

Rick ponders this for a minute, just about sighing against Daryl’s mouth; their lips like weak magnets. That’s a promise in the wind, eons from everlasting. “All in one night?” He foolishly wants to know.

“However many nights ya want.” Daryl’s reassuring him softly. “‘Til yer heat’s over.”

“You don’t mean that.” _Please don’t tell me that._ Rick wants to hiss, to press the matter as hard as their bodies are pressing now, but all he can afford is a long exhale. “You don’t know what you’re promisin’.”

“Think I do, but if I don’t… Don’t care. Need ya, Rick. Know ya need me, too. Can feel it.”

Rick opens his mouth, wanting to talk back, to deny, to tell himself to slow down or wait another minute, but his body is tired and hot, his mind static with caution but more than that, esteem. He’s so won over right now.

“Al’right, then.” Rick supposes. He’ll give Daryl this, finally give _himself_ this. “If you’re so confident…”

Rick runs both his hands overtop Daryl’s hands, helps them cleave to the bones of his hips under his clothes, and allows himself feel that familiar spark of desire jump from Daryl’s body and straight through his at that flesh-on-flesh contact, at that inborn connection between them – a connection he’s no longer beginning to fear. Not with Daryl.

“Lie back on the bed and make me believe you.” Rick says on nothing but breath and then finally lets himself smile, under the impression that he won’t get used to this.

He just won’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex in the next chapter, promise.


End file.
